


signals (and the mixing thereof)

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Fears, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bad Jokes, F/F, Humor, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, No beta we kayak like Tim, Pregnancy, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, they're trying their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 06:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30051534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: “Melanie and I are looking for a sperm donor.”Jon is a shrewd bloke. Quick, witty, clever. Part of Georgie had been hoping that she wouldn’t have to explain further, that Jon would be smart enough toget it, but given the blankness of his current stare, well. Never mind on that.Embarrassingly explicit it is, then.“I am askingyouto be our sperm donor,” she spells out for him.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 28
Kudos: 196





	signals (and the mixing thereof)

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer:_ No.
> 
>  _Author’s Note:_ I keep thinking I’m done and then escherzo will post something and I’ll be like. Yeah. _YEAH._ We _do_ need more content under these tags! 
> 
> _Tags/Warnings:_ No Fears AU. Jon + Georgie friendship, with background JMart and WTG. Possibly (read: probably) OOC, as I’ve never really written for Georgie before. Crap edits. Could I have done more with this idea? Yes. Should I have done more with this idea? Undoubtedly. But here we are.

\---

signals (and the mixing thereof)

\---

Georgina Barker-King doesn’t feel fear.

She never has, as far as she can remember. It’s something that Georgie has come to quite like about herself, to be honest. Sure, it means she has to self-moderate a bit more than the average person, but that aside, she’s found her fearlessness comes with more benefits than drawbacks. She’s the one who turns every relationship into an adventure, for example: the one who encourages travel, and kitchen experiments, and creativity in the bedroom. She never has qualms about quitting jobs that don’t suit, because she isn’t intimidated by the usual societal threats of starvation and homelessness. Nor is she afraid to pursue whatever wild or wonderful dream it occurs to her to chase… Not even when that dream is something as financially risky— or, in her mum’s words, “silly”— as hosting a paranormal podcast.

There’s nothing to fear but fear itself, they say. And Georgie can’t even be bothered to fear that. 

But even for someone as _intrepid_ as herself, there are times when Georgie gets… nervous. Not the sort of “nervous” that other people feel, as far as she can tell; it isn’t enough to dissuade her. Not usually. But it _is_ enough to give her pause: to make her stop and think about the line she’s on the cusp of crossing, and whether or not the price of overstepping those boundaries is worth the cost. Once, Georgie had tried to explain her interpretation of the feeling to Melanie as a sort of mental crosswalk. One with lights, cars, and indicators that she would sometimes heed, sometimes risk, sometimes ignore all together. 

The fact that Georgie is presently ignoring the angry signal at a literal crosswalk in her hurry to get to the café is an unsubtle metaphor. She chooses not to acknowledge it. Not when she can already see Jon through the window, doing his usual squirm-and-scowl routine. He doesn’t so much as blink when the bell above the door sings Georgie’s arrival. She isn’t surprised. 

“Jon!” 

Grinning, breathless, Georgie weaves past the impressively long queue, waving both to get her friend’s attention and to assure those around her that she isn’t trying to cut. While she isn’t exactly a regular of Canyon Café, Georgie has frequented the place often enough to know how things can get on Tuesday afternoons. (And yep. Just as suspected— there’s Jack taking orders. And at the head of the line, a pretty girl with hair the same crimson as a wick tip. He really ought to just ask her out, already.) “Hey, Jon, I’m here! Long time no see!” 

At the sound of his name, Jon jerks back to reality. The motion ripples through the fabric of the oversized jumper he obviously stole from Martin. “Georgie,” he greets, as if startled to see her bustling towards him. “Indeed. Slightly longer than it should have been, isn’t it?” 

“Thought I’d take a page out of your book. What’s it called again? Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder: A Memoir?” 

“Pardon me for having been ill.” 

“I grant you no pardon. Letting yourself get sick was a poor choice. Next time, just. You know. Don’t do it.” Dropping her purse at her feet with a _thud_ , Georgie glides into the booth opposite of Jon, her smile full of the same merry, manic energy for which she had become known at university. More than one of their professors had suggested she go by ‘Nicky,’ given how many classes she slid into just in the nick of time. It’s a nice memory— a shared memory— and from the way Jon’s smirk has dried around its edges, leaving it affectionately wry, Georgie suspects he’s remembering these sorts of things, too. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he drones, setting aside the decaf tea packet he had been folding into an origami star. He has already made a pair of lopsided swans from his empty sugars, a kangaroo out of a grease-stained pastry wrapper, and a turtle from his receipt. Speaking of old habits. “Well. In that case. Kind of you to join me for this dire get-together that _you_ arranged, Mrs. Barker-King.” 

“Hey, now. Don’t blame me if you were waiting long. Arriving early was another poor choice on your part. I got here exactly on time,” Georgie points out, though perhaps with less than the usual amount of snark. Now that he mentions it, her text that morning had been far more… _enigmatic_ … than usual. If not downright somber. _Could we talk?_ is the sort of phrase saved for breakups or roommate interventions, and neither of those have been relevant to _them_ for years. 

“Fearless” is not the same as “socially inept.” But there is an unexpected amount of overlap, Georgie has realized over the years. While Jon is kind enough not to point as much out himself, he is also uncomfortable enough to have gone back to fidgeting, trying to finish his half-formed star. 

So Georgie cringes and offers, “Sorry,” not disingenuously. Jon arches a brow. “I am. Believe it or not, I did try to get here earlier. But then Melanie needed my help with some malfunctioning tech, and the bus was delayed and… yeah. I didn’t mean to make you worry. I forget, sometimes, about phrasing, and… that kind of stuff. I should have thought about how you might read my message. That’s on me,” Georgie admits. After trying with middling success to catch Jon’s eyes, she adds, “That having been said, this isn’t the sort of conversation I wanted to have over Whatsapp. You know?” 

Jon’s snort, though soft, is enough to push his swans across the table. 

“Funnily enough, I do.” The curve of her friend’s lopsided grin is tucked into his right cheek, much as another paper tab is tucked into a meticulously made crease. “I’ve actually been meaning to… that is, I also have something I want to… to discuss with you. To _tell_ you,” he amends, in that firm way Jon does when correcting his own semantics. “If you’re amenable, of course. I wouldn’t want to hijack a conversation you took such pains to organize.” 

“Oh?” 

There is a redness creeping over Jon’s face that Georgie wants desperately to tease him about, even though realistically it’s just excess heat from Martin’s sweater. It _is_ pretty warm in here. And Jon has never been one to easily blush. Still, Georgie is amused to note how the light of the crosswalk reflected through the window exacerbates his glow. 

“My, my, Mr. Sims,” she whistles, dropping her chin atop the plinth of her wrists. “Now I’m intrigued. My inner journalist wants to make a proper interview out of this.” 

“Well then, your inner journalist better hope your outer podcaster hurries up, huh?” Jon drawls, pinching his star’s corners to correctness. A flick, and he sends the wee thing shooting across the wooden table, angled such that Georgie can catch its cuteness in her palm. “Georgie, I assure you, I am an anxious enough wreck without the dramatic buildup you’ve inadvertently seen to arrange. What’s going on?” 

Outside, the crosswalk blazes green. Inside, the paper star pokes hopefully into her fingers. Georgie takes a breath. 

“Melanie and I are looking for a sperm donor.” 

Jon is a shrewd bloke. Quick, witty, clever. It’s one of the things Georgie has always liked about him, even if his sharp tongue hasn’t earned him many other friends. Part of her had been hoping that she wouldn’t have to explain further, that Jon would be smart enough to _get it_ , but given the blankness of his current stare, well. Never mind on that. 

Embarrassingly explicit it is, then. 

“I am asking _you_ to be our sperm donor,” Georgie spells out, delicately arranging the origami star before her. The careful and clear enunciation seems to work, in terms of getting her message across; it would probably behoove her, though, to try and get out the rest of her request before the color drains completely from Jon’s frozen face. “I know, I know. This is a _huge_ favor. It’s why I didn’t text it. And I’m not expecting you to say yes or no right now— It’s natural that you’d want to sit with the idea. To think about it. And to talk to Martin about it, obviously. But Melanie has already given her blessing, believe it or not,” Georgie chuckles, reaching out for Jon’s hand. The fact that he has yet to _breathe_ is starting to concern her a bit, but she presses on, trying to lay all her cards on a table that is already covered in restless origami. “She’ll never admit it, of course, but the two of you… share a lot of similarities. Similarities that I love. Not to get too technical about the workings of genetics and whatnot, but— I mean, you see where I’m going with this, right? Not to mention that Melanie and I know and care about you. We trust you. That’s a plus, too. So this idea feels… warmer… than going to a bank. If that makes sense. Does that make sense?” 

Under Georgie’s splayed palm, Jon’s fingers are terror-stiff and cold. Georgie can’t help noticing that he’s starting to look _green_ , despite the flashing red of the light across the street. Her heart falters in her chest. “Jon? Jon, are you okay?”

“I… um.” Jon’s voice cracks in the back of his throat. Dark eyes dart. Then, in an adrenaline-fueled rush, the hand beneath Georgie’s vanishes, yanked back as Jon struggles to escape their shared booth. “It… no.” 

“‘No?’” Georgie frowns. “ _No_ , you’re… not okay?” she tries to clarify, “Or _no_ , that doesn’t make sense? Or— or _no_ , you won’t…?” 

“I have to go.”

“What?” Floundering, mystified, Georgie hesitates in her seat, unsure if trying to stop Jon from leaving— to calm him down or otherwise reassure him—, would make things better or worse. In her experience, it could go either way; it’s impossible to really predict his reactions. Case and point: Georgie had thought she’d considered every possible outcome for this conversation, but apparently not. Thrilled acceptance would have been great, a polite rejection she could have handled— even an open-minded discomfort would have been fine. But Jon’s mortified scrambling has completely blindsided Georgie. “Jon, wait— Wait, if I crossed a line, I’m sorry. Please, can we just—?”

“I don’t— I don’t feel well,” Jon tells her, stumbling over the words in his haste to spit them out. “I have to— I need— I need to leave. Right now. I have to— I—” 

The ever-lengthening queue parts as Jon shuffles backwards, the people in it pleased to see one less body in the café. The crush guides him, dampers him; without so much as finishing his sentence, Jon is gone, bell clanging in his wake. 

Paper star in hand, Georgie watches through the window as Jon sprints across the street, the crosswalk’s gleam haloing him in scarlet.

-

Communication has never been Jonathan Sims’ strong suit. It was true when they first met, it was true when they were dating, and it’s only gotten truer after reestablishing their relationship. But even at their most volatile, he has never actively _ignored_ her before.

“He’s a dick,” Melanie reminds, no more impressed by Jon’s behavior now than she had been a month ago, when her wife had returned home from Canyon Café baffled and hurt and possibly down one friend. “He’s always been a dick. And we have no want or need of dicks in this household.” 

Georgie hums, half-distracted by her phone and the string of unanswered texts on her screen. “What if we have a boy?” 

“We’ll sell him for weapons, Amazonian style,” Melanie intones, dropping next to Georgie on the couch. “Look, hon. You know Jon better than I do, and even _I_ know that he’s just… being Jon. In the sense that he isn’t mad at _you_ , he’s probably mad at _himself_ for some stupid, incomprehensible reason. Because everything always has to be about _him_ , somehow,” she adds beneath her breath, eyes rolling. “He’ll come crawling back when the guilt becomes too much, I’m sure.” 

Georgie considers this, recalling as she does a recent reassurance from Martin: _I’m honestly, really sorry, but I can’t say anything more than ‘please don’t take it personally.’_

Biting her lip, Georgie turns that message over in her head. She turns Melanie’s insight over, as well. Over and over, over and over. 

Groaning, Melanie makes a show of sinking into mismatched cushions. “I can _hear_ the gears in your head spinning,” she complains, nostrils flaring in distaste. “And _feel_ them, geez. Their grinding is, like. Reverberating through the springs. You’re going to ruin our brand-new worn-out charity-shop sofa.” 

“Sorry about that.” With sardonic cheer, Georgie stands, stamping a kiss to her wife’s crown. “Does this help?”

“Not really. You’re a powerful grinder.”

“Mmm. Don’t _you_ know it.” 

Melanie snorts, turning her head to follow the sounds of Georgie moving through their flat. Her partner seems to be on a mission. Or about to start a kitchen band. “But seriously,” Melanie calls, loudly enough to be heard over the thoughtful clattering of pots. “What are you doing?” 

The electric stove smolders rosily when Georgie turns it on. 

“Making soup, I think.”

-

_I’ve brought your sick ass some kickass soup,_ Georgie rereads, tongue between her teeth and thumb poised over the send icon. That said icon had been designed to look like a paper airplane makes her miss Jon more, even though he’s just on the other side of this door. This stupid, bolted door. _It’s chicken, like you. Come out and face me, you coward._

Hmm. Too aggressive? Maybe. Arguably. Okay, definitely. Perhaps it would be wiser to call Martin and see if she couldn’t sneak past him. He’s big, sure, but she’s lithe and wearing her leather jacket, which is sort of slippery. If she threw the soup to distract him, she might manage—

The lock clicks. 

Georgie’s head snaps up, serenaded by the whine of old hinges and the rumble of Jon saying, “—thought I heard the delivery person outsi—” before he stops short, gaze falling on Georgie. 

Their eyes meet. His go wide. They aren’t the only thing about him that’s gone _wide_ , and Georgie is gasping a concerned, “ _Oh my God,_ ” that does nothing to muffle Jon’s heartfelt, “Fuck.” Though he moves immediately to slam the door, Georgie is pleased to discover that she wasn’t totally wrong about her jacket, at least when dealing with someone as small as Jon. 

Even though Jon is far _bigger_ than he was the last time she saw him.

“Jonathan Sims!” Georgie rages, rounding on her friend in the foyer. He cringes, visibly tempted to dart into the complex’s hallway, but in the end stands his ground, allowing the door to fall shut on its own. “I know you said you were sick, but— what the hell?! There is _obviously_ something— This is _serious!_ ” she hisses, soup sloshing in its plastic container as she gestures wildly at Jon. Certainly he looks like he is suffering in a very serious way. “Christ! Is it a tumor? Is it malignant?! Terminal?! Is that why you’ve been pulling away?! I’ve read that people who are dying will sometimes— Jesus, Jon, are you dyi—?!”

“I’m pregnant.” 

Whatever else Georgie had wanted to say is forgotten in a mental implosion of bewilderment, static buzzing between her ears. She gawps. At Jon’s face. At the predominant growth of his belly. At his face again. Jon, deeply distressed, fiddles with the hem of his long-sleeved t-shirt, smoothing the material over his bump. It _is_ a very baby-shaped bump, Georgie realizes, now that she’s been told to look at it that way. But.

But— 

“But you’re a guy,” Georgie blurts, in a tone that fluctuates awkwardly between reminder and confusion. Jon nods. 

“Yes.” 

“You’re… pregnant?” 

“Yes,” he says again, gently. Encouraging, almost, trying to guide Georgie as her head spins and her body reels. “I am both of those things.” 

“You’re pregnant.” 

“Yes. Four months so.” 

“…okay.” Georgie blinks, trying very hard to process this revelation faster. Shit, she must look like such a jerk. She _feels_ like such a jerk. But there are quite a few puzzle pieces moving in her mind right now, collected over years and years, and they are all shifting to form a picture that is both very different and exactly the same, and it’s _a lot to handle_ on a Tuesday afternoon, stood in the front hall of your ex’s flat holding a container of rapidly cooling chicken soup. “Okay.” 

Jon, somewhat fairly, does not look convinced. “Okay?” 

“Okay,” Georgie rasps again, but this time with conviction. “Good God, Jon, _of course_ it’s— I mean, wait, no, it’s _not_ okay if I ever made you feel like it _wasn’t_ okay to tell me, but—”

“Wh—? Oh no, no, that’s not what I—!”

“Jon?” Martin’s head pops from around the back corner guest room, his cheeks smeared in seafoam green paint. Only when the flat goes silent does Georgie realize the myriad of construction noises that had been echoing from the room’s depths. “Was it the delivery person? Do you need—? Ah.” 

After taking in Jon and Georgie’s frazzled expressions, Martin smiles, kindly and long-suffering.

“Time for a tea break,” he decides. “To the kitchen with us all.”

-

Georgie and Jon talk. They talk for hours. Martin doesn’t do much to add to the conversation, but does remain a comforting presence at Jon’s side, his fingers threaded encouragingly through his boyfriend’s.

“It’s silly,” Jon mumbles, more to his tea than to Georgie. “It’s just… uni was the first time I ‘passed.’ And you were the first partner I ‘passed’ _with_. That meant a lot to me, and I didn’t… I didn’t want that to change. I didn’t ever want to do or say anything that would make that change.” 

“That’s _not_ silly,” Georgie assures— insists— reaching out to touch Jon’s free hand. It’s warm, now, and loose, in ways it hadn’t been at the café. “It’s not. I get it, I do. But I promise, Jon, nothing _has_ changed. Er, well,” she amends, conceding Jon’s unspoken point when he looks at her, a single eyebrow arched. “All right, I mean, _yes_ , a _couple_ of things have changed. In regards to, uh… a few of the favors that might be feasibly asked of you. But that’s it. You’re still, you know, _Jon_. That hasn’t changed. Nor the fact that you’re my dumb ex-boyfriend and my dumber friend.” 

“Wow, thanks for that. Very uplifting.” 

“You’re a guy. You can’t help being dumb,” Georgie tells him sympathetically. “Though if it helps, I also feel really dumb. About all of this. My behavior, and— Again, I am so sorry about what happened at Canyon Café.” 

“You needn’t be.” Jon shrugs, dismissive but not ungrateful. His lips unfold like one of his origami creations, further creasing the crows’ feet by his eyes. “You literally had no way of knowing. And in retrospect, it was… flattering, in its way?” he confesses, shy, still in a state of general disbelief over the whole crazy situation. “Really, if anyone ought to apologize, it should be me. I handled things so poorly. I wasn’t expecting… well…” 

“The Semen Inquisition?” 

“Nobody expects the Semen Inquisition,” Jon nods, ignoring the way that Martin chokes on a biscuit. “Even so. I could have used your request as a segue into the dialogue I’d already _intended_ to have with you. Instead, I panicked and hurt you unintentionally. For that, I am sorry.”

“It’s all right. No harm done.” Beaming, Georgie leans back in her chair, giggling a little at the sheer madness of everything that has happened, and how much things really _are_ “all right.” Whether or not no harm has been done, though, will be dependent on the state of Martin’s lungs once he gets his breath back. 

A tangential thought turns Georgie’s snickers impish. 

“That said,” she lilts, a smirk curling between the brackets made by her palms, “if you’re looking for ways to make things up to me, there’s a rumor going around that your boyfriend, here, is a _very fertile_ specimen—” 

This time, Martin chokes on air. 

“ _Well,_ ” Jon announces, pushing himself back to his feet, “it was lovely to see you, Mrs. Barker-King, but I believe it’s time for you to get the hell out.” 

“Oh, come on!” Georgie tries to wheedle, cackling as she allows Jon to bustle her out of the kitchen, down the hall. “Think about the possibilities! Every child needs a sibling, or—” she winks, “—half of one, at least.” 

Jon has never looked more Done with her and her antics than he does in this moment. Which, all things considered, is saying something. 

“Thank you for the soup. No thank you for the proposition. Goodbye,” he deadpans, moving to shove his sniggering friend out the door. 

But then he stops, his plans having been foiled by the appearance of a half-dozen boxes. Stood side by side in the jamb, Jon and Georgie consider the impressively heavy-looking pile of disassembled furniture. 

“…I’m having war flashbacks to that time in third year when, in our hubris, we thought we could refurbish your entire flat in an evening through the magic of IKEA,” Georgie whispers. Hers is the hush of a person breaking a vow made to never speak of a moment again, and Jon groans, both in acknowledgement and decades-old agony. “God. It’s amazing we didn’t break up right then.” 

“We are forged from stronger stuff than indecipherable instructions and missing screws,” Jon solemnly intones. “Which means we’re stronger than pretty much anything.” 

Georgie is tickled by how much this idea delights her. By how true it really is. “Our bond is unbreakable,” she decrees. “We needn’t fear anything.”

“Ha. You wouldn’t have feared anything, anyway,” Jon huffs, forever droll. Then he sighs, considering the haphazard stack of uneven and oversized parcels. “I don’t… I don’t suppose you’d again be interested in applying that fearlessness towards indecipherable instructions and missing screws?” he tries, only half-joking. “For old times’ sake?” 

Georgie smiles. 

“I would,” she says. “But not for old times. For right now.” 

Later, Jon will adamantly blame his blush on hormones. But for now, he simply lets his cheeks turn a fond red, and thanks Georgie after she kisses one.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> In other news, if anyone is looking for a good WTG song, you might check out “At a Distance” by Autumn Tears.


End file.
